


Precarious

by undyingflower



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/M, Future Fic, Marriage of Convenience, Post Season 8
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-08-25 05:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16655353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undyingflower/pseuds/undyingflower
Summary: Sansa could see it clear now. Love meant sacrifice and selflessness; it meant that another’s well-being was more important than one’s own.She felt a determination rise in her that she never felt before.Sansa Stark needed to die … and she would plan it all out.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

  

 _The future was a dark corridor, and at the far end the door was bolted_ ― Gustave Flaubert

 

* * *

 

**SANSA**

 

There was no bedding ceremony.

Jon shifted in his seat; his gaze locked on the fire.

Sansa sat in a chair to his side.

The light coming from the fireplace bathed the bedchamber in a warm and reddish glow.

The lord’s chamber was occupied by a nice, huge four-poster bed made of dark wood, with dark gray sheets. There was a small stuffed divan upholstered in dark brocade; two small wooden tables, one on each side of the divan, held several candles, creating lovely shadows.

Sansa drained her cup and felt her cheeks flush.

 _Jon should have married Daenerys_ – she considered, remembering the gossips about their short dalliance.

She had heard the whole story. Tyrion had no filter; he drunkenly spilt all the events leading up to the night Jon and Daenerys shared the same room … and bed.

Sansa could not stop her insides from twisting at the thought. The evidence that she never really had Jon’s heart felt like a punch in her stomach, hitting her so hard she thought she would crumble.

_How could she have read the signs so wrong?_

When he had held her in his arms, she could have sworn that he had felt, as she had, a connection between them that defied reason.

When he had kissed her forehead, she had believed that he loved her.

_Stupid Sansa._

She had done the same thing with Joffrey when she had believed in his pretty words.

_Stupid, stupid Sansa._

She’d fallen in love with Jon the first day she’d laid eyes on him, in Castle Black, and she had believed he had felt something for her too, but Tyrion’s words had crushed that belief.

Sansa wouldn’t admit to herself that what hurt more was feeling rejected.

Jon did not marry her for love, but for political reasons … and to protect her.

He didn’t love her. He just felt an obligation to her (or Father’s ghost would come back and murder him).

She was his family. Honor demanded him to protect her. It was his duty.

 _Family, honor, duty_.

The Tully words always suited Jon (now more than ever). Catelyn Stark would be so proud.

Sansa would have laughed if she weren’t so tired and hurt in every way.

It was the stone-cold truth. Jon’s actions were not driven by love.

Sansa’s eyes blurred and she had to bit her lower lip hard.

Jon would never be truly hers. He had fallen in love with the Mother of Dragons.

She had deceived herself from the very beginning; her heart was bruised at the thought.

The part of her that believed—or wanted to believe – that he loved her was a fool.

Sansa rose from her chair.

She wanted the pain to stop.

She looked into Jon’s eyes, feeling bolder than she had in a long time. Maybe because she’d reached the point where she had nothing to lose. She had nothing left but the need to be honest with herself about what she really wanted, and right now, she wanted him.

She wanted Jon’s touch. She wanted to feel, at least once in her life, what it was like to be with a man like him. It was foolish. Not smart at all. Not when she knew he didn’t feel the same. But she was his wife now, and she intended to act like it.

“Will you dance with me?” – Sansa said; her tongue loosened by wine.

Jon regarded her for a long moment.

“Here?” – he stuttered.

“Yes” – Sansa stated – “Here” – she added, picking up his cup of wine, drinking it as well.

Jon gulped.

“But… there’s no music” – he stammered.

“We don’t need it” – Sansa declared, kicking off her shoes.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the chair.

Suddenly, she was in his arms. Her left hand clasping his right; his left hand settling on the very proper and limited touching zone at her waist.

His steps were a fraction slower than hers.

His touch was light. Too light.

It was a butterfly touch.

She didn’t want him to touch her in a proper manner. She wanted him to touch her as a husband and, especially, as a lover.

“I’m not that fragile” – Sansa spoke.

“What?” – Jon asked, confused.

“You’re dancing with me as if you think I’ll break” – Sansa said; her tone harsh – “I’m not made of glass, Jon” – she added.

He considered her for a moment

Sansa sighed. She knew her anger was petty, but her heart was so tired…

She wanted love. _His_ love.

She wanted him to say the words “I’m hers and she is mine” and really mean it.

Suddenly, without warning, Jon spun her around twice, pushing her away from him and drawing her back. He dropped his arm so she fell back, then he caught her at the last instant, leaning over her and pulling her up.

“Is that better, My Lady?” – Jon asked, looking right into her eyes; his voice sounded different than she had ever heard it.

Sansa laughed breathlessly. She felt a flush creep up her neck, the longer he looked at her the more she felt her face heat.

One corner of Jon’s mouth lifted in just the tiniest bit of a smile, and she felt her own lips twitch with the beginning of a smile.

“A little” – she said.

Jon grinned.

He skimmed his hand over her back to secure her more firmly. He resettled her in his arms and used more of the floor space to dance her around.

He released her waist long enough to spin her around and then caught her close again; her right hand in his left, his right hand slipping down to her waist.

Around and around the room they went.

A little laugh escaped from Sansa.

He spun her around and caught her back against him, arms around her middle, grasping her hands, and now they danced with her back pressed against his chest.

She was right. They _really_ didn’t need the music, her body automatically swayed to the motion of his, as if they were dancing to the rhythm of the snow falling or the stars aligning.

When Jon lifted her off her feet, she threw her head back and laughed.

Then she linked her arms around his neck, for the first time in more than a year, in an embrace that was sheer and simple affection.

Their eyes locked on each other.

Sansa’s heart pounded against her ribcage with such force she wondered if Jon could hear it; his hands tightened on her hips.

Jon lowered her down, so her feet could touch the floor again.

Their faces were an inch apart.

Sansa felt herself become entrance by Jon’s gaze.

Intense emotions slammed into her; she held her breath.

She looked at Jon’s mouth, knowing it was a mistake, but unable to stop herself.

Her heart thudded.

He had beautiful lips, just the right size and shape, and she had to taste him. Had to know those lips, had to satisfy a quest she’d begun unknowingly a year ago. At the same time, it was though all the barriers she’d erected were tightening, warning her not to do it. But the clawing need for affection and sharing was stronger.

One kiss. What harm could that do? It wouldn’t mean there was more to come, but it would satisfy an ache.

She did what she shouldn’t. She ignored those damn warnings, and suddenly, she didn’t care if he had slept with anyone else. He was here against her, warm and gentle; his lips inches from hers, and she couldn’t hold back anymore.

She kissed him with all the passion and love she’d locked away inside her. It was like unleashing a wild beast.

Her lips traced his in an intoxicating rhythm that simultaneously gave and begged for more.

She gripped the front of his shirt, keeping him close. She was on fire, desperate searching for relief.

He opened his mouth to her as the disease called love took over both of them.

After a long moment, she pulled back from him a little.

The sight of him took her breath away.

_Gods, she’d kissed him. She’d kissed Jon._

She couldn't believe what had just happened.  She’d kissed Jon and he had kissed her back.

She wondered if Jon really wanted to kiss her back or if he was just inebriated.

He had a wide-eyed, unsure expression on his face and Sansa knew he needed an explanation for this. She also knew she had no intention of stopping to give him one right now.

She recaptured his mouth before he could deny her another kiss.

One had not been enough. Two wasn’t going to be either.

She moaned softly against his mouth, kissing him harder and harder as if it would never be enough, not quite enough.

“Sansa” – Jon gasped when they parted slightly for want of air, but it did little to deter her for she pushed forward.

Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him to her to deepen the kiss.

She freed his hair from the leather tie at his nape.

Jon whispered her name against her lips, a heated urgent sound that crackled along her nerve endings.

When had desired turned into this clawing consuming kind of need, a need that said she’d die if she didn’t have him?

She wanted him so close to her that she could feel every breath, every heartbeat, every pulsing flutter of his body… and still, she realized, it wouldn’t be enough to quench her thirst for him.

Needing the exquisite feel of flesh against flesh, Sansa thrust her hands beneath the hem of his tunic. She let her fingers explore what was underneath: the tight, hot skin over his ribs, the ridges of his abdomen, the scars on his back, the angle of his hipbones…

Passionately, her tongue entered his mouth with sweet provocation; her body pressed against his as if of its own accord.

There was no resistance on his part.

Jon let her unlace his tunic.

Jagged scars marred his beautiful pale skin.

Sansa reached out and traced a long, thin scar that slashed over his ribs and then another, on the left side of his chest, directly over his heart.

She felt his muscles tense beneath her touch, and kissed a spot on the back of his neck, making him shiver and groan his approval.

Sansa backed off a bit and looked at him.

His eyes dark, with need, widened.

She clasped his breeches and pulled him back against her.

She pressed her lips against his for a long, passionate kiss. Jon’s lips were warm and soft and it felt so good kissing him.

Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck; her heart beating wildly as he kissed her back, feeling as if her body would melt into his.

She wished she could feel this happy forever.

Feeling bolder than she had ever felt in her entire life, she kissed his chest.

Jon gasped.

His skin was so soft that she could hear his heart beat fast.

Sansa continued kissing a trail of passion from his chest to his shoulders, and up to his neck.

Then, she stopped kissing him so she could untie the little strings at the top of his pants that held them together. Next, with deliberate agility, she flicked the top button on his trousers, watching as understanding dawned on his face.

Excitement over what they were about to do made her ache, literally ache, between her legs.

Another button slipped undone and the front flap of pants fell away.

Jon reached out and clasped her face, his eyes fierce with a need that left her breathless.

This time he was the one who kissed first, really kissed her, no holding back. She gasped at the suddenness of his action.

Her hands started moving through his hair, pulling him even closer to her.

He drew her flush against him, and the intense flashes the kiss had ignited grew into a sweeping inferno of desire.

His open mouth sealed to hers and she accepted his offering.

Sansa’s heartbeat raced, her stomach flip-flopped and her knees wobbled. She didn’t want these sensations to end.

When Jon lifted his head to look at her, she looked deeply into his eyes.

“Are you sure?” – he asked.

She inhaled deeply, drawing the scent of him deep inside her.

Every nerve tingled with anticipation. Every sense strained to the breaking point. Her breath hitched, her stomach rolled and that ache low in her body seemed to throb in time with her pulse beat.

 _Sure?_ Gods, if he didn’t take her to bed quickly, she was going to toss him to the stone floor and have her way with him. And the mental images inspired by _that_ notion nearly pushed her over the precarious precipice on which she felt balanced.

She curled her arms around his neck and nodded. But there was a gleam of uncertainty in his eyes as if he was waiting for her to change her mind.

Gently, she grabbed one of his hands and kissed the center of his palm.

She met his gaze with her own.

“Yes” – she whispered brokenly.

Swirls of want and need and pure, unaltered lust swan in the pit of her stomach.

Apparently, Jon saw the truth in her eyes, because he picked her up, and kissed her passionately as he edged his way toward the bed.

Sansa wrapped her legs around his waist.

He held her tightly as he lowered himself softly onto the bed, on top of her.

He swept her skirts up her legs, so he could dispose of her smallclothes.

His hands touched her legs and she felt a rush of carnal desire.

He kissed her neck and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. His lips were moist and warm, as he kissed her slowly and deliberately; his thighs pressing against hers.

If only she were naked, to have him kiss every part of her body.

She ran her hands along his muscular forearms, then slid them down his back.

Jon opened his mouth over the pulse that beat beside her ear and her hips bumped his.

He pressed forward, moving deeper inch by inch.

She could sense he was holding himself back, being extra gentle and careful.

Her body seemed not her own as she locked her ankles at the small of his back, liking the feel of him inside her, pushing against a little spot that left her breathless and in need of him. All of him.

“Sansa?” – she heard him say tenderly, caressing her brow, and she opened her eyes to found him looking down on her, hardly separate at all – “Are you well?”

“Yes” – she answered, the word itself a sigh of ecstasy – “I think I’m quite well”

He kissed her deeply, then slowly moved inside her, deliberately tender.

Her body quivered around him. She clutched him, her fingers raking down his back.

He pulled out and then slid back in again with exquisite care.

She felt the pleasure building up inside her like a fever.

She felt herself coming alive, free but safely grounded in the shelter of his arms, as if she had finally come home.

Her body found his rhythm, moving naturally without her conscious will.

She clasped the nape of his neck, holding herself against him as he pushed into her, dragging her into a world of pleasure.

She was so close. Her whole focus shifted to where they were joined and she fought for release. Needed to shatter in his arms with him inside her.

Harder, higher, faster. Together. They were moving as one flesh, and it was glorious. She savored the hot friction of him moving inside her.

He gasped her name and she arched beneath him.

His strokes became harder and faster and then exquisite torture burst through her body like a ray of light.

She moaned his name as tremor after tremor racked her core.

Jon’s kiss swallowed her screams as though he wanted to absorb every bit of pleasure coming from her before his own shout of ecstasy sounded against her throat.

They stayed entwined for a little while until their breathing was level and heart races calm.

At last, he rolled off of her and pulled her close. Instantly, her arms and legs entwined with his.

The fleeting thought that this would happen again, thrilled her beyond anything.

She curled into his side, her head against his muscular chest as she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

**JON**

 

Jon contemplated the woman seated next to him.

Sansa talked and acted as nothing had happened between them, and Jon realized that she didn’t remember their night. She had drunk, rather too much, to remember it; as if she could not bear it otherwise.

It was torture. Her perfume drifted towards him as she moved her arms, and a tendril of hair escaped from the braided chignon she had fashioned at the back of her swan-like neck. Everything about her fired his blood to fever pitch. It was impossible to be in the same room as her and not want to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

This was worse than when she had been mad at him for bending the knee.

This time he was beyond knowing how to handle her, or what to say or do.

Yes, she had been mad at him for bending the knee, and she had paid him back with silence. But then Bran had told them the truth, and everything changed. The Gods had finally given him a chance at happiness, at love…

His heart pounded as his thoughts traveled and he remembered their wedding night; he felt a dangerous excitement streak through him.

He remembered everything about the night they’d made love for the first time.

He remembered how her fingers had slipped up his chest, how they’d scraped his back when they’d found their rhythm.

He remembered her sensual mouth and the way it had fed so hungrily of his; her soft hands with their dancing fingertips that had set his skin on fire; the way her long, slim legs had wrapped around his waist as he’s plunged into her hot moistness; the way her body had gripped him tightly as if she’d never wanted to let go; the way her hips had moved in time with his, her breathing as frantic as his own gasps … and the way she had gasped his name, her body convulsing in ultimate pleasure, triggering his own cataclysmic release.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remove the memory of her touch from his mind, much less his body.

He remembered waiting for the guilt and the shame of what they’d done, but there had been nothing but the warm length of her body pressed against his and a contentment that he had never felt before.

Jon swore, realizing that if he let his thoughts travel much longer, every lord and lady in the council meeting room would know exactly how aroused he was becoming.

When he left their bed, Sansa had been sound asleep, wrapped around him like a clinging vine.

Jon had carefully detangled himself from her and tiptoed toward the door.

He didn’t intend to consummate their marriage, but her kiss had sent reason flying away.

He knew that their marriage was a marriage of convenience. He knew that Sansa didn’t love him. He knew that she had only slept with him because she had felt it was her obligation; because bedding was part of marriage… And that was why she had drunk so much, so she could bear it, so she could bear _him_.

Jon clenched his jaw.

Sansa deserved better, and still he couldn’t quite make himself regret wanting her. But it was more than physical attraction. When she smiled, he smiled. When she laughed, he wanted to hear her do it again… and last night she had laughed. Last night she didn’t seem cool and guarded. Last night she seemed happy.

He knew he’d brought her bliss. He’d seen it in her radiant face; he’d heard it in her hoarse voice, shouting his name; he’d felt it in the pulsing climax that’d rocked her from the inside out.

Jon’s heart started to beat faster as a thought invaded his mind.

_What if what he was feeling wasn’t quite as one-sided as he thought?_

Perhaps she felt something for him too. Perhaps she loved him too…

Suddenly, with a gasp, Sansa pressed a hand against her temple.

 

* * *

 

**SANSA**

 

“Sansa?” – Jon said and she felt her stomach contracting and then twisting into a knot.

Her name sounded different on his lips – the caress of the S, the way it seemed to end on a breath.

“Are you well?” – he asked.

Her insides fluttered, sending curls of heat through her stomach and shivers all the way down her spine. She had heard those words before.

_Sansa? Are you well?_

Pain pounded in her head like a blacksmith hitting steal.

She pressed her hands to her temples and closed her eyes.

Her thoughts traveled and she felt her cheeks flush.

_Yes. I think I’m quite well._

Her heart felt like it was ready to bust out of her chest.

She felt a hand touching her face and she immediately opened her eyes.

Her eyes met Jon’s.

Sansa’s head tilted slightly towards his hand. He had beautiful hands, strong and weatherworn, but gentle. His touch excited her beyond anything she had expected.

She was drawn to his warm gray eyes.

Jon caressed her cheek with the tips of his fingers, lightly but enough to make her shiver.

Sansa looked at his mouth.

Uneasy, she gulped.

Just like seconds ago, a flash of pain went through her head and she suddenly saw an image of Jon kissing her and gasping her name, except it felt more like a memory.

She could actually see herself in his arms, her mouth against his, her hips moving in time with his, his hands gliding down her long legs…

She blinked and swallowed deeply, not believing she had allowed such thoughts to enter her mind.

She moved her head away from his touch. She thought she saw a disappointed look in his eyes. Maybe even a slightly hurt look, but she needed to put some distance between them.

Sansa pushed back her chair before standing up.

Jon opened his mouth but she was faster.

“A sudden headache” – she spoke, feeling her knees trembling – “If you’ll excuse me” – she added, already backing out of the room, not waiting for Jon’s response.

 

* * *

Her loving him was a foregone conclusion.

She loved him, even though she was fairly convinced that love had never entered the picture from Jon’s side.

 _The heart wants what it wants_. She was the living proof that the saying was very true. She couldn’t do anything to change how she felt, just as she couldn’t do anything about making Jon love her.

The flashes continued. She didn’t mention them to anyone, and she’d gotten good at hiding her reaction.

Different things seemed to trigger them and they were all centered around Jon: his warm hand on her arm, the scent of his hair, his alluring voice, they had all triggered immediate, intense images of the two of them.

They developed a pattern. Jon was the first one awake; she was the first one asleep, except when desire overtook reason and the wine gave her the bravado she needed to be honest with herself.

Sansa opened the door and entered into their chambers.

She put the cup down on a small wooden table and walked towards her husband.

Jon was sitting in a chair near the hearth, the flames throwing red shadows into his face.

She sat down right on top of him and haled her skirts up out of the way.

She kissed him hungrily, her mouth needy, her tongue demanding.

He murmured her name and she found she couldn’t get her fill of him fast enough.

She untied his shirt strings and shoved the shirt open, exposing his chest almost to his navel. At the sight of his hard body, she felt a yielding in every part of her.

Sansa slid her hands over his skin, starting with his shoulders. The heels of her palms radiated in gentle circles over the caps of his shoulders, then on his breastbone and down his chest.

Jon let out a low groan of pleasure.

She leaned forward and laid her hands on his forearms on top of the chair’s arms, pinning him in place.

Sansa kissed him.

Jon thrust his tongue into her mouth and a quiver shot down to her belly. She broke off the kiss to catch her breath. Then kissed him again.

She let her hands fall down his back until they reached the waist of his pants. Her hands followed the edge until they met in the front. Without looking, she untied his trousers as he engaged her lips.

He gripped her face, tugging her head down so he could kiss her hard; his other hand firm on her bottom, keeping her pressed tightly against him as he flexed his hips upward, stealing her control and her breath.

He was wonderful. Perfect. Everything. And never before had she assigned those adjectives to a man. But they fit him, just like he fit her.

Jon slowly ran his hands up her stocking legs until he reached the lace at the top of her thighs, letting his fingers caress the skin just above the stockings. She shivered at his touch, wanting him to touch her all over, but Jon, ever the noble, didn’t continue his exploration. He reached for one stocking, slowly rolling it down her leg and off her foot, letting it fall on the floor. He did the same thing with the other one.

He quickly removed her smallclothes, then he gripped her butt hard, tugging her into position, lowering her down onto his arousal, every thick inch filling her perfectly.

She braced her hands on his shoulders, moving in time with his breathing. Slow and measured. With the very first movement came a strange rush of pleasure at the fullness deep inside.

She wanted to stay in his arms for the rest of eternity.

She squeezed his shoulders tight, her nails digging into his skin.

She had him pinned beneath her, his hips trapped between her thighs. Captive. And yet her body rocked with the movement of his hips, with every thrust of his powerful thighs. His body was strong, his touch so tender. Perhaps _she_ was the captive. She couldn’t help but surrender. Her heart belonged to him.

The faster she rode him, the more the pressure seemed to build. She wanted to give him everything. To hold no part of herself back.

His fingers were on her hips, coaxing her, guiding her as she rode him.

She gripped his arms and held on tight. Her hips rose and fell, grinding against him.

She was his. Her body knew it as well as her heart.

The spasms took her and she cried out, her muscles contracting around him as waves of ecstasy rolled through her.

Jon’s breaths came faster, his thrusts more urgent, until his legs stiffened beneath her and a rush of heat filled her deep inside. Spent, Sansa collapsed onto his chest.

Jon’s heartbeat comforted her. His arms locked around her and he held her tight, occasionally touching a finger to her hair.

After a moment, Sansa tipped her head back to look at him.

Their faces were mere inches apart, while their eyes stared intensely into one another’s. Time seemed to freeze.

She reached up and, with her fingers, traced the outline of his face, taking in every line of him, every scar, everything that defined the man she so desperately loved.

She wanted to tell him that she loved him. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a sentinel of common sense told her it was a mistake, but all the same she felt it.

Sansa traced along the bow of his lips and then across the fullness of the lower one.

Jon kissed her fingertips and she felt like her heart would break. He was perfect.

She brushed her lips against his and heard a sigh when she moved away. He was giving her control of the situation. She kissed along his jaw; his stubble tickled her lips, making them even more sensitive. His lips were silky smooth by comparison.

She loved his mouth: warm, safe, inviting.

Jon gathered her up in his arms, her body still throbbing, and carried her to the bed, laying her down.

He slipped into bed and pressed his lips to hers in a slow, unhurried kiss, tucking her to his side. He wrapped an arm around her back as one of her legs tangled between his.

Exhaustion swept over her swiftly as Jon’s heart beat soundly under her cheek, and she drifted off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

**JON**

 

He watched her sleep.

The warmth of her body pressed against him was comforting.

Asleep, his wife looked at peace. Asleep, all the lines fell from her face and he could see who she once was.

Sansa caressed him in her sleep, petting his skin, dancing in the scars covering his chest, and he liked it. He liked having her next to him.

She looked so peaceful and beautiful that it almost took his breath away.

Jon caressed the softness of Sansa’s cheek with a fingertip, noting the roughness of his skin in contrast to hers.

He watched her breath in and out; his left arm trapped behind her, unable to move in case he disturbed her. And he didn’t want to disturb her, because as long as she was sleeping, he could watch her. Watch the slight fluttering of her eyelashes against her faintly flushed cheeks. Watch the soft rise and fall of her chest with every breath, and hear the gentle sigh of air as she exhaled through parted lips that were pink and so damn kissable it was killing him.

Jon felt a lump in his throat and a tightness in his chest as a vague anxiety that Sansa would not remember anything about their night, in the sober light of day, invaded his mind.

He loved her.

He loved her keen wit. He loved her good sense and practicality.

He loved that she was unafraid to take him to task when she believed him to be wrong.

He loved Sansa in a way he’d never loved anyone before.

But it was only in this early-morning time, before she was awake, that he could gaze on her face with the same open love he’d felt from the moment he saw her passing through the gates of Castle Black.

She still affected him in a way he’d never understood.

She ruled his heart.

He wanted to tell her, but words had never favored him and, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself, he was afraid of her reaction. He was afraid she didn’t feel the same, that Sansa only married him for political reasons, that Sansa only slept with him because bedding was part of marriage.

Jon looked away, unable to watch her any longer, unable to lay there with his arm around her and lust after her when she didn’t feel the same (because if she felt the same, she wouldn’t drink and drink and drink, so she would not remember their lovemaking).

It would be easier if he didn’t want her.

Jon sat on the bed and looked at her, again, knowing he would never tire of the sight of her, the feel of her against him.

He knew this moment would end too soon.

In the morning, she would not remember any of it, and that was simply the way of things.

Jon sighed.

He wanted to eliminate the unhappiness she expressed every day, during council meetings, meals, and anywhere but here, in their bed.

He wanted her to feel loved and wanted.

He wanted to love her. Publicly. Not just in his mind and in his heart.

He wanted to make her laugh outside their chambers.

He wanted to make her believe in songs again.

He wanted her to trust him, to need him, too.

He wanted her to forget the bad things that happened to her in her own home.

Jon’s heart wrenched and burned furiously with hatred at Ramsay.

_Ramsay._

His mind started to show him images of Ramsay Bolton forcing himself on Sansa.

All he could see was Ramsay’s cold hands inflicting pain on Sansa.

Jon clenched his jaw, realizing that she was still suffering because of that monster. Even dead, Ramsay continued to haunt her mind. He was still stuck in her brain, in her memories.

Rage started to invade his body.

Jon lifted Sansa’s hand in his and caressed it.

Never again would she be a plaything for any man.

He had an overwhelming urge to kiss her and tell her that she would be fine, that one day the wound would close over.

He wanted to be the one to close that wound, to be the one to erase all the ghosts living inside the walls of Winterfell.

A thought came into his mind and Jon smiled, looking at his sleeping wife.

Perhaps there was a chance to make Sansa happy again, to make her dreams come true.

He could imagine the two of them happy, building a family together without the weight of the past on their shoulders.

If the Gods gave them babes, he knew Sansa would be a wonderful mother. The thought of Sansa carrying his child was something that he spent a ridiculous amount of time thinking about during council meeting when he should be contemplating defenses and stores.

Jon’s pulse sped up.

He was hopelessly in love with his wife.

He would be the best husband that he could be, and he would make Sansa Stark fall in love with him… he just needed a little help.

* * *

 

**SANSA**

 

As soon as she stepped into the courtyard, the sound of wings beating in the sky startled her.

Suddenly, she heard a roar and a dragon flew over her.

Confusion rippled through the courtyard for a moment.

Sansa’s eyes widened as she looked up and saw Daenerys Targaryen looking powerful, invincible and utterly beautiful on Drogon’s back, her personal mount.

The dragon landed heavily in front of Winterfell’s gates. Most of his scales were black, shadowing red ones that ran down his back and neck. His wings and frills were black-red mix, down to the wing-bones which were black.  Sansa also noticed that Drogon’s eyes were orange-red.

Daenerys dismounted and Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, trying to hide her discomfort.

 _Jon should have married Daenerys_ – insecurity rose in her chest.

The Mother of Dragons had the most beautiful blonde hair that Sansa had ever seen. She was wearing a dark red gown, snug around her waist and fanning out at her hips. A silver dragon snaked its way up her neck, and her blonde hair was held away in a complicated array of braids.

The last time Sansa had seen her was four moons ago, at the wedding.

The Queen in the North felt a sharp pain in her chest as she remembered that day – the day Tyrion had drunkenly told her about Jon and Daenerys’s dalliance… And now she was back.

_Why?_

Her heart sank.

_Did Jon tell her to come?_

As if thinking of him had summoned him, Jon appeared in the courtyard.

He walked towards her. When he got near her, Sansa closed her eyes as she savored his clean, masculine scent. Their bodies were so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his skin.

Jon rested his hand on Sansa’s slender waist. She tried to ignore the protective and innocently possessive way his arm molded around her waist and the way his hand cradled her hip.

Her heart started to beat faster. She liked the way he touched her. It was almost hypnotic.

A flash of pain went through her head, triggering an immediate, intense image of the two of them, in bed.

Sansa pursed her lips, hiding her reaction, as Daenerys approached them.

“Your Grace” – Sansa said, regaining control of her thoughts. 

“Dany, please, Sansa. Call me Dany, I insist”– Daenerys said – “We’re family” – she added.

The Mother of Dragons turned her attention to Jon, offering him a warm smile.

“I’m glad you came” – Jon said with a matching smile.

Sansa wanted nothing more than to disappear, to run away from them and their intimate looks.

Jon had asked Daenerys to come.

It was too painful to watch, to hear, to know that Jon would never be hers. That realization made her incredibly sad.

Her life was a never-ending nightmare.

“I’ll ask someone to prepare your chambers, Your Grace” – Sansa said, before making her way towards the castle.

 

* * *

 

Jon was sat at the head of the table, Daenerys to his right while Sansa sat at the other end of the table, directly across from him.

Sansa kept her eyes stuck on her plate, preventing her from seeing the way Daenerys’s hand touched Jon’s arm every time she laughed.

Arya was sat to her right and Bran sat to her left.

Ser Jorah, Brienne, Ser Davos, Ser Jaime and Tyrion were also present.

Sansa vaguely followed their conversations, only contributing when asked.

A million questions stormed her mind.

_Why did Jon ask Daenerys to come?_

_Were they lovers?_

_Was she planning to stay here for a day, a month, a year?_

_Did she intend to take her place by Jon’s side?_

_They had spent the entire day together. Did Jon bed her already?_

Sansa bit her lower lip and try to remain with a neutral face as images of Jon and Daenerys together flitted through her brain.

She couldn’t even dislike the woman. Daenerys was pleasant and charming, with a down-to-earth friendliness. She always tried to set her at ease. She could see why Jon liked her; why Jon _loved_ her.

The air felt like fire in her lungs as she faced reality.

“In the contract drafted between House Targaryen and House Stark, a condition was that the North would be maintained as independent” – Tyrion’s voice caught her attention – “So the heir to the Iron Throne will not inherit Winterfell. The domains of the North will go to the second in line”

A bad feeling inside Sansa grew stronger.

“What if they have a girl first?” – Ser Davos asked – “Will she inherit the throne?”

“Of course” – Daenerys spoke – “She will be Lady Regnant of the Six Kingdoms and I will have a beautiful nice to spoil” – she added, smiling.

Sansa tried to smile back, but it was as if the muscles of her face were denying her the right.

Her heart started to beat faster and faster as she realized that she’d been married for more than four moons and that she continued to receive her moon blood.

Her nights with Jon were a blur in her mind, but she knew they’d slept together enough times for her to be with child already. But the truth was that she was not pregnant. She just had her moon blood a sennight ago, and since Daenerys’s arrival Jon had spent most of his nights sound asleep on his side of the bed… or away from their chambers.

Her heart thudded in her chest and her breath caught in her throat.

It was her duty to give Jon an heir.

She thought about her mother and how easily she had given birth to five children.

She thought about Sam and remembered his happy face when he informed them, three moons ago, that Gilly was pregnant.

And then she thought about herself and her marriage with Ramsay. All the things she did so she would not get pregnant, so she would not have his child.

Her temples pounded harder and faster with every heartbeat.

Guilt, like she’d never felt before, slammed into her and she was out of her seat and exiting the room before she could think.

She needed to be out of there, away from _Jon_. She didn’t even know what lame excuse she threw over her shoulder as she exited. All she could think about was what she’d done to them.

She remembered the Moon Tea she used to drink after her nights with Ramsay.

She’d always dreamed of being a wife and a mother, but she couldn’t bear the thought of carrying Ramsay’s child. She couldn’t bear to think of her own children having a father like him, a monster.

She worried that she would not be able to love the child, so she continued to drink the Moon Tea, day after day, night after night, not really knowing how often she should drink it, and not knowing about the adverse side effects.

Realization dawned on her, bringing with it a combination of horror and fear.

The backs of her eyes stung. Tears were threatening, and she willed them back, furious with Ramsay, with herself, with everything.

She hugged her arms to her chest to ease the hollow ache she felt almost down to her toes.

Her dreams were gone. Ruined.

Jon would never place his palm on the swell of her abdomen. She would never place her own hand over his and show him that the little life growing within her was made from both of them and was strong and real. Jon would never press his face over her belly and held his ear to her as if he could hear the babe inside.

Sansa’s pulse began to race. She knew no child would’ve ever been more loved.

Her hands started to tremble.

She had destroyed a part of herself. She had destroyed her dreams and her future. She had destroyed any possibility of having children.

The reality was that she was barren and she had no idea what to do about that. There was no way he knew. She knew he wouldn’t have been able to hide it if he did.

_How would he react? Would he blame her? Would he hate her?_

The way her gut twisted at that thought was enough to bring her to a halt. She couldn’t lose him. She needed him.

 _She loved him_.

But after this … she’d never blame him if he did hate her. She’d understand. She was the one to blame.

The look of utter betrayal on his face as he learned what she’d done came into her mind and she shook her head fiercely to get rid of it.

It left her short breath and not knowing what to do.

_Jon should have married Daenerys._

People said that the Queen couldn’t have children; that Jon was the only one who could continue the Targaryen lineage…

Sansa felt herself growing weaker. She had ruined everything. She had condemned Jon to a sad and unwanted marriage when he could have married Daenerys Targaryen instead. He could have been with her this entire time. They would never have children, but at least they would be together, they would be happy.

_Jon should have married Daenerys._

That was one of the long nights of her life. She went back and forth on whether she should tell him or not. She knew Jon needed to know. But both of them knowing made it real.

Part of her was hoping he’d figure it out on his own. But as the moons dragged on and he showed no signs of noticing, she became anxious. Because, as soon as he knew, everything would change. Part of her also felt that if she was the only one bearing the burden, she could save him the pain of knowing what she’d done to him, _them_.

“He’ll hate me” – Sansa spoke.

There it was. She finally admitted why she’d been so quiet, why she hadn’t said anything when she knew she should have. Because it gave her one more month, day, hour of him not looking at her like she’d destroyed his life.

“There you are” – a voice startled Sansa; she turned her head and saw Arya walking towards her – “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I wanted to say goodbye. I’m leaving for King’s Landing” – she added.

“You’re leaving, again?” – Sansa asked – “But you just came back” – she complained.

“I need to buy a new sword” – Arya explained, scratching the back of her ear.

Sansa frowned.

“A new sword? We’re not at war anymore. The Great War is over” – she said – “Besides, you have hundreds of swords. And you only use Needle”

Arya ran her fingers through her short hair

“Well, I need a helmet” – she said – “For the tournament”

“What tournament?” – Sansa asked, confused.

“ _Your_ tournament. On your name day” – Arya said – “Three moons from now” – she added.

Sansa looked out over the high battlement walls, her arms propped up on the smooth stone.

“I don’t think there will be any tournament, Arya” – she sighed.

 “Jon said it will” – Arya stated.

Sansa heard the sound of flapping wings – a sound that she now recognized very well – and bit the inside of her cheek.

Jon and Daenerys were back. At least he arrived early.

Drogon and Rhaegal landed heavily in the courtyard.

Sansa peered over the battlements.

She saw Jon clasping Daenerys’s waist, helping her dismount. She thought his hands had lingered a moment before he released her.

Sansa bit her lower lip, holding back her emotions.

She noticed Jon’s clothes were dusty and his hair was tousled, and thought about the last two moons and how Jon was always tired, exhausted and … absent.

Their pattern had changed and, now, Jon was the first one awake _and_ the first one asleep.

Since Daenerys’s arrival, Jon had spent most of his time away from Winterfell, with Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regnant of the Six Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.

She didn't want to think about what they did while they were away, but her mind insisted on showing her images of Jon and Daenerys together. It made her blood run like fire, made her vision small.

Of course, his honor could be abandoned for a pretty Queen.

All men were the same, she thought.

When Jon smiled down at Daenerys a wave of dark jealousy crashed over Sansa. It seemed Jon had smiled with Daenerys from the moment she’d arrived.

“Jon has been too busy with his Queen” – she grumbled – “I doubt he’ll have time to organize a tournament”

Sansa turned her back and walked away, leaving a speechless Arya behind.

She quickened her steps and as she turned the corner of the stairs, she saw Jon standing at the bottom, looking upwards, at her. For a moment, she faltered. He looked so very masculine, so heart-shakingly familiar. It would be the easiest thing in the world to run down to him, to fling herself into his arms, to beg him to hold her and never let her go.

Horrified, she averted her face from him, praying that he would move out of the way before she reached the bottom stair, and yet, when he did, the surge of disappointment that swept her taunted her mercilessly, revealing her weakness.

When she was about to walk past him, he grabbed her arm. His grip was firm but gentle.

Vivid flashes of Jon kissing her invaded her mind, making her feel stupid.

_A stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never learns._

She blinked away the pinpricks of tears welling up in her eyes and took a deep breath.

“What’s wrong, Sansa?” – Jon asked, looking at her in concern.

Sansa did her best to breathe normally but her emotions kept getting the best of her. She felt like she was being suffocated.

She peered at him, wanting to see if she could see something in his eyes; something that told her that possibly, perhaps, hopefully he loved her too?

Her stupid and traitorous heart was telling her to stretch out a hand to him.

Sansa’s gaze drifted to his lips.

He was so close that she could see the creases on his mouth, the fullness of it.

Unconsciously, she put her hands on either side of his face and leaned close.

“Sansa…” – he whispered, gripping her waist.

She realized she wanted to kiss him. Partly because she wanted to stick it to Daenerys for sleeping with him. The other part because she loved him; loved him so much it hurt.

“My love, what is it?” – Jon asked softly, his brows furrowed in worry.

Sansa’s heart lurched, banging against her ribcage.

_My love._

He’d called her _my love_ and it seemed to have come out naturally, not a fake endearment.

Until that moment, he’d never called her that.

It nearly made her cry. No one had ever called her _my love_ before.

But then she remembered his smile to Daenerys.

_Did he call her ‘my love’ as well?_

Jon caressed her cheek, and Sansa couldn’t help thinking of him touching Daenerys, running his warm hands along the inside of Daenerys’s thigh.

Sansa shook her head and broke the contact completely by stepping away; away from those eyes boring into her, in case he saw the truth. That she wanted him despite everything.

 _Jon should have married Daenerys_.

But Sansa knew Jon was too good to leave her, to ask for an annulment. He would always feel an obligation to her.

Jon was not Rhaegar.

As long as she lived, he would never leave her.

A sudden thought pierced her mind, making her feel strangely calm and accepting.

If she died, he would be free from his obligation.

If she died, he would be free to marry Daenerys Targaryen.

If she died, he would be free to be with the woman he loved.

 _She_ was the problem.

She was broken. Damaged. No one should be tied to a person like that.

She couldn’t spoil Jon’s chance at happiness. She couldn’t be selfish anymore.

She loved him. She wanted him whole.

Sansa could see it clear now. Love meant sacrifice and selflessness; it meant that another’s well-being was more important than one’s own.

She felt a determination rise in her that she never felt before.

Sansa Stark needed to die … and she would plan it all out.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

 _What is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying ―_ Albert Camus

 

* * *

**SANSA**

 

She was in her solar sewing new clothes for Arya, trying hard not to think about her husband at all, but the very act of trying not to brought him more swiftly and powerfully to mind.

Three moons had passed since the day Daenerys Targaryen had arrived in Winterfell and, since that day, Jon had spent most of his time away from home, from _her_.

A lump formed in her throat.

Lately, Jon almost never slept in their chambers anymore.

She missed a stitch and bit her lower lip as images of Jon kissing her, touching her, making her shake and gasp flitted through her brain.

_It seemed so long ago…_

Closing her eyes, she willed herself not to dwell on her disappointment. Jon wasn’t rude. Just distant. If pressed, he’d give her a small social smile, or ask about her health. But that was the extent of their communication.

She squeezed her eyes shut as if something sharp had pierced her chest.

She missed him.

She wanted love. Real love, the kind they sang about in songs… But marriage was not like the songs. At least theirs was not.

Jon didn’t love her.

Not like Father loved Mother.

Not like Sam loved Gilly.

Not like Robb loved his Talisa **.**

Sansa felt the burn of tears.                                                       

 _Wolves never cry_ – she reminded herself.

She missed a stitch, again.

She wanted Jon to seek her out at all hours and in all places; to pin her to a wall and kiss her.

She wanted to make love to him in the Godswood, under the blood-red leaves, in the hot springs with warm water swirling around them.

She wanted back the nights when she was able to lose herself in his arms, in his body. The present was such a stark contrast to those nights that she shivered.

She didn’t just want him anymore. She _needed_ him.

She took a deep breath, trying to control her breathing that was beginning to escalate.

Sansa shook her head and reminded herself of what needed to be done.

She couldn’t be selfish anymore.

_Jon should have married Daenerys._

She tried to pretend she had no doubts. She _couldn’t_ have doubts.

She tried to accept her decision, her plan.

 _He will be happier_ – she told herself.

Sansa was about to throw down the cloth altogether when there was a knock at her door.

_Jon?_

Her heart skipped a beat.

Half in hope she crossed the room.

Reaching out to grasp the doorknob, she noticed the slight tremble of her fingers.

She took a deep breath and shook herself a bit.

“Gilly” – Sansa breathed, looking at the woman in front of her.

Gilly’s belly grew bigger and bigger each day.

Sansa felt a stab o jealousy. She desperately longed for such happiness in her own life…

Gilly and Sam looked so happy lately. The extra care a would-be mother got was her right and Sansa couldn’t help but feel her heart ache a little at the memory of Sam rushing off to get the special food Gilly desired.

 _Jon will never do that for me_ – she thought, sadly.

“Your Grace” – Gilly said, bowing her head, interrupting her thoughts – “I’m looking for Little Sam. Have you seen him? It’s almost past his bedtime and Sam –”

A sudden gasp prevented Gilly from finishing her sentence.

She immediately put her hand over her abdomen and winced.

Sansa took a step forward and touched her forearm. She guided her to the nearest chair and gently helped her to sit.

“What’s wrong?” – she asked with a heavy note of concern.

“Nothing …” – Gilly gasped – “The babe is kicking” – she explained.

Sansa walked towards the small table in the corner of the room. She grabbed the jug and filled a cup with water.

“Should I fetch Sam?” – she asked, handing her the cup.

“No” – Gilly said, after taking a sip – “Nothing to be concerned about” – she explained, offering her a small smile – “The babe just gave a good kick, that's all” – her palm rotated soothingly across her abdomen.

Sansa felt as though her heart had lodged in her throat as she watched Gilly’s patting her belly. She was having a glimpse of the future she would never have.

Her heart ached with longing and her womb ached with emptiness.

Her dream of motherhood was gone.

When Gilly tried to rise from the chair, Sansa stopped her movements, placing her hands on her shoulders.

“Sam said you must rest” – she spoke, regaining control of her voice – “I’ll go look for Little Sam” – she declared, leaving the room before Gilly could protest.

Sansa searched through the empty rooms, halls and corridors, wondering where the little boy had gone.

She walked the entire castle, from dungeons to great hall. She wondered through bedrooms, storage rooms and kitchens.

She found stairs leading up to a tower and climbed them.

Turning the corner, Sansa came to a doorway, the door propped fully open.

The sound of Jon’s deep voice, almost chanting in a slow rhythm, made her stop walking.

Her heart did an involuntary jump.

She felt herself trembling inside.

Moving into the open doorway, she looked into the room; it was lit with the orange light of the hearth.

The walls of the reading room were lined with books; the shelves so high that tall ladders set on casters were placed along them at intervals. Rows upon rows of bookshelves stood at intervals on either side of the room.

And then she saw him.

Sansa’s heart started to beat faster at the mere sight of him.

He was sat in a wooden rocking chair. Little Sam balanced on one thigh facing him, sitting absolutely still and staring at the big man as though transfixed.

Jon was telling him a story about Florian and Jonquil. Her favorite.

 _Not anymore_ – she berated herself.

Jon’s face mirrored the emotions of the characters in his tale, and he looked back and forth at Little Sam, constantly asking what he thought happened next, teasing him, making him think he was going to stop the story each time he reached a climactic point.

She watched as Jon turned another page of the book, but somehow, she was not entirely sure if the story he was reading was actually in there. She remembered all songs about Florian and Jonquil, but as she listened to Jon, she couldn’t recall some of the events he was telling.

She leaned against the door frame and allowed herself a little smile.

He was so handsome, so gentle, so kind.

_He would make such a good father._

Unconsciously, she put her hand over her flat stomach.

Her heart ached.

Suddenly, a rustle in the doorway drew Jon’s attention away.

Sansa felt her stomach somersault when his gaze met hers.

She caught her ragged breath, feeling her heart pounding fiercely inside her chest.

She cleared her throat and smoothed her skirts, trying to compose herself.

“You’re back early” – she said, trying to hide a slight tremble in her voice; Jon’s mouth opened, closed, and Sansa bit her lower lip as her mind started to show her images of Daenerys and Jon together – “Gilly is looking for Little Sam” – she forced the words out of her mouth, before Jon could speak – “It’s almost past his bedtime” – she added.

She approached them. Little Sam raised his arms to her.

Her body seemed to be moving on its own accord. She easily lifted him and nestled him against her chest.

Little Sam yawned and dropped his head onto her shoulder.

Softly, she began to sing a slow and gentle song, stroking the tight curls of his brown hair.

“You look beautiful holding him in your arms” – Jon spoke, smiling one of those rare smiles that filled his face.

Reality crashed upon Sansa like a bucket of cold water.

She tried to move, but she was hit with a spasm of immobility, her feet frozen in place.

His sweet words were like a knife's blade to her chest, cold and sharp, resurrecting her fears.

She swallowed tightly. Her breath came hard and fast.

He was perfect, and she didn’t deserve him.

Her heart thundered in her chest.

This was the time; the time to come clean. She could tell him everything. She could tell him she was barren.

She tried to open her mouth but it was like her lips had been sewed shut.

She couldn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t face the disillusionment that would cloud his eyes.  She couldn't lose him.

_He’ll hate me once he knows the truth._

Her eyes stung.

Her mouth flattened.

Emotions surged through her like a storm.

_Why couldn’t the Gods let her be happy? Was that so much to ask after all she’d been through?_

“There you are!” – a voice startled her.

She turned her body and watched Sam walking into the room.

“Your Grace” – he said, looking at her, before bowing his head – “You should be in bed already, little man” – he added, beaming at his son as the little boy opened his eyes, recognizing his father’s voice – “First you skip out of your lessons and now –”

“Let him be a child” – Jon’s voice made Sansa’s heart beat so hard against her chest, she thought it might break her ribs.

Jon rose from the chair and walked towards them. He got near her; their bodies were so close that Sansa could feel the heat emanating from his skin.

“When you have a child to look after, then we’ll talk, _Your Grace_ ” – Sam said, emphasizing the last word and smiling as Jon made a face.

The air felt like fire in Sansa’s lungs. She could feel Jon’s eyes on her.

She looked down at Little Sam, at his innocent face, then over at Jon, at the man she loved more than she would have ever dared dream she could love anyone.

His eyes shimmered and her heart broke.

The urge to run took over and, without a word, she quickly put Little Sam in Sam’s arms and made her way towards the door.

Her blue gown flew out behind her as she left the room.

She hurried down the corridor, feeling like the walls of the castle were closing in on her.

She needed air… and a drink.

 

* * *

 

**JON**

 

Jon studied the door for a long time before finally pushing it open and stepping inside.

Sansa was standing near the window.

He closed the door and watched as she put a glass of wine to her lips and took a vigorous sip.

He noticed that the jug of wine on the table was almost empty and his heart started to beat faster as he anticipated Sansa’s actions.

She had drunk too much during supper, which meant that she was not planning to get into bed – _their bed_ – to sleep.

There was a sensation of overwhelming excitement surging through his body.

Sansa turned her body and walked towards him. She handed him the glass and he took it in both hands, almost reverently.

She was wearing a beautiful blue gown that fit her to perfection and deepened the color of her eyes. It was simply cut to drape softly at the neckline and fall in a clean, straight line to brush the floor, and it had full sleeves that tied at her wrists.

His wife walked towards the dressing table.

He saw her reaching for the pins securing her hair.

“No, wait” – the words stumbled out of his mouth, practically on their own.

Sansa stopped and Jon saw an unsure expression on her face.

He moved toward her.

Her perfume drifted towards him. He inhaled her scent; she smelled of soap and something else, something impossible to define.

He stood behind her and studied her face in the mirror; her beautiful hair piled up atop her head.

Slowly, he traced his hand across her shoulder and captured a loose tendril of hair. Soft, silky, _red_.

Jon twirled it around his finger and his gaze met Sansa’s in the mirror. She wasn’t uncomfortable with what he was doing. She was mesmerized.

A sort of contentment settled in the pit of his stomach.

Carefully, he pulled one of the pins from the back of her hair. It tumbled down, covering her shoulder. He found another and pulled it free. More hair fell loose.

He slid his fingers through her beautiful hair and found each remaining pin and pulled it out until all her hair curled at her waist.

Jon smiled. He’d wanted to do this for moons. _No, his whole life._

Sansa turned in the circle of his arms.

_She felt so right in his arms._

He wanted to rest his palm against her face, to smooth his fingers down her cheek, her neck, her chest…

His mind whirled with the possibilities.

This close he could see the barest kiss of freckles along her nose.

Sansa’s breath came fast between her lips. Her features were delicate, making her look innocent almost, hiding her strength and courage.

He wanted to say he loved her, but she kissed him, hot and full on the mouth, before he could so much arrange the words.

She tasted of wine, dark and heady.

Branded by a rush of heat, he backed her against the wall, losing himself in the kiss.

He tasted the wonderful familiarity of her, stirring in him deep yearnings for the physical completion he had only felt with her.

He opened to her command, hungrily feeding at her mouth, brazenly playing with the stab and thrust of her tongue.

They kissed as if they were the inventors of kissing.

When Sansa drew her lips from his, she stared at him. He stared back, committing every detail of her face to memory; his mind supplying the details the darkness hid. He knew her features as well as his own.

They gazed silently at each other.

He had missed this, _her_.

He had been absent these past moons, and he hated being away from Sansa, but her name day was near and he wanted everything to be perfect. The tournament, the music, the people and, especially, her present.

It had taken some convincing to get Daenerys to agree to it, but in the end she’d said yes.

Nerves knotted his stomach as he thought about it.

He wanted to give her a present which no-one else would give her, something special; something that told her how much he loved her; something that told everyone how much Jon Targaryen loved Sansa Stark.

Sansa traced his features with her fingertips.

She acted as though she cared about him. Maybe even loved him. But she hadn’t said the words. Neither had he. He had been afraid to say them. Too worried, too afraid to give voice to the sentiment for fear that she didn’t love him. That she was too carried away by the moment. By everything.

It all seemed too good to be true.

His hand slipped beneath the curtain of her hair, while he caressed her neck.

She clutched the front of his tunic, digging into the skin beneath.

Fire coursed through his veins. He burned up with need.

He dipped his head and kissed her neck. Sansa arched giving him access to her throat.

He let one hand drop to her leg, drawing her dress, inch by inch, up her thigh.

Sansa grabbed the back of his neck with both hands and pulled his face closer.

She kissed him with an urgency, a wildness, that matched his.

He slid his hand beneath the rucked-up skirt to touch soft stocking, then warm flesh.

A low, throaty moan escaped her.

She whispered his name against his lips and he felt himself drowning in her mouth, in her kiss.

His rough fingers felt clumsy as he circled her inner thigh, drawing another gasp from her.

The brush of Sansa’s hand against his chest came out of nowhere. Her fingers trailed lower and he was stone, set solid with desperate anticipation.

Somehow her lips found their way to his neck, tracing a path up the side of his throat to the sensitive skin beneath his ear; his pulse quickened against her mouth.

He gasped her name like a prayer; his neck muscles taut.

His fingers tangled with hers, fumbling to undo his trousers. The feel of her nimble hands untying the little strings at the top of his pants almost tipped him over the edge.

With a hungry growl, he planted his hands at her hips and hiked her up against the wall.

Her legs came around his waist in a quick, clumsy movement as between them they hauled her skirt up out of the way.

Sansa’s breath came in pants that matched his tortured gasps.

Their eyes locked. He never wanted to look away. When Sansa looked at him like _that,_ he could do anything, be anything she wanted.

Unsteadily, he reached for her, tracing the lace edge of her smallclothes, pulling it aside. But he couldn’t manage gentle; his hands were too clumsy.

He heard tearing as her smallclothes came away in his hand.

He looked at the woman he wanted – no, needed – and waited for her reaction.

Something flared in Sansa’s eyes. Something that told him she was excited, not angry at him for ruining her pretty undergarment.

He felt his blood boiling and a hot pulse rushed through his veins. His heart beat wildly against his rib cage.

Her legs tightened around him, and suddenly it was too much.

Jon thrust high and hard, burying himself in her heat, losing all sense of himself. Of time. Of place. There was only Sansa.

She was all around him, hot silk against his erection; long legs circling his waist; hands cupping the back of his neck.

He thrust again, anchoring her, probing as deep as humanly possible, making her his in the most elemental way.

Her hips pushed forward, meeting his, following his rhythm.

He growled, feeling tremors begin deep inside her and knowing a fierce, possessive joy that he did this to her.

He brought her bliss.

She came so hard and fast he had no time to think before it took him too, overtaking him with a rush of such force, such violent ecstasy, he doubted he’d survive.

Bracing himself, he rode out a storm of pleasure that wrung every ounce of energy he’d once possessed. It was all he could do to stand. Yet, from somewhere, he found the strength to hold her. Nothing could have pried her from his grip.

She was his. Nothing in his life had ever felt so right.

Jon closed his mouth over Sansa’s, swallowing her soft cries.

Her body slowly relaxed against his as her muscles unclenched and eased.

“I want to do it again” – Sansa spoke; she was breathless, her voice unsteady, husky, dark with promise.

Her words hit his senses like a drug.

He quickly carried her over the bed as she twisted her fingers in the front of his tunic, pulling it over his head. Her hands moved on his body with a featherlight touch. Tender, gentle, yet demanding.

They fell atop the bed in a graceless heap, and he couldn’t help but smile against the skin of her neck when she giggled delightedly.

Jon took her mouth again, this time with less finesse, more of the driving need that had him swollen and heavy.

He wanted to strip her bare – _Gods, how he wanted to_ – yet he didn’t dare to undress her. He feared her reaction. He wanted to see her, to admire her, but he didn’t know if he was allowed to. Sansa never gave him any indication that she wanted to be undressed, and he didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.

Her tongue danced around his, shying away and then coming back at him with little darts and flicks.

Jon skimmed his hand over her hip, then pulled her tighter to his pelvis, letting her feel the turgid outline of him.

He was wild with his need of her.

Sansa twined her arms around him and tangled her legs with his, moving against him in that soft, fluid way that was driving him mad.

He held her tight as he brushed his tongue against hers, feeling her shiver, hearing the soft sound she made in her throat.

Her hands slipped around to the small of his back as she pressed into him; her mouth hungry, her body fitting the hard angles of his.

Sansa locked her ankles at the small of his back and he eased into that silk, wet heat. He didn’t ask if she was sure or if she was ready. The answer to those questions were clear in her actions.

He was a man who lived his life by control. His survival and the survival of those he was assigned to protect relied on his vigilance. He had to always be on guard, aware, in charge. But with Sansa he was able to surrender, to lose himself in passion and pleasure.

He held still for a moment, eyes locked, chest tight, body roaring with lust.

Sansa’s lips were swollen from their kisses; her chin reddened from his stubble.

She was so beautiful it caught him in his chest and squeezed.

She moved beneath him and he rocked once, twice, and then fell into a rhythm of hard, cutting pleasure that spiraled down to her movements, her sounds, her needs.

She had turned him into a creature of senses and dark hunger.

He waited for her, feeling the tension within her build, doing whatever he could to coax her to her release.

Gripping her hips, he slowly thrust inside her in a controlled movement.

A pulsing shiver went through her, gripping muscles, gripping him.

She gasped as he went even deeper, clinging to him; her nails scouring his flesh as she wordlessly urged him onward.

His need stretched endlessly, his hunger knew no bounds. Sansa matched his thrusts with equal fervor.

He rode her, harder and faster, until the bed frame rocked loudly against the wall.

He loved her. There was no denial. No argument that she was the one.

When at last she came with a loud cry he followed her quickly over the edge, holding her close, rocking together with her, moving as one, unable to tell where his pounding heart ended and hers began.

He muffled her scream with a kiss and came hard. Climax ripping through his body like a storm, before he collapsed on top of her.

He had given her all he had. Body and soul.

They were breathing heavy, the sound harsh in the silence.

It took several minutes for both of them to recover.

Jon felt Sansa’s fingers running soothingly through his hair, and lazily opened his eyes, realizing his head was resting on her chest.

Some weak voice of sanity told him he was probably crushing her.

He tried to move but Sansa made a sound of protest and held him tighter; arms and legs like rope binding him to her.

He lifted up his head and looked down at her.

The sight of her took his breath away.

Her red hair looked like fire across the pillow. Her cheeks were flushed from their lovemaking. Her lips were slightly parted and red as cherries in the cold.

 _She was so very beautiful_ – he thought, realizing he was once again in awe of her – _More than beautiful._

She looked like she belonged on a throne.

Jon felt his heart begin to beat faster.

_How did he get to be so lucky?_

Sansa was everything. Everything he thought he could never have. Everything he’d ever wanted. Someone brave, gentle and strong; someone to be his best advisor; someone to love and build a family … A partner in life.

She was gentle, but also fierce and fearless.

She was born to be a Queen and he was born to love her.

A smile graced her lips, one he hadn’t seen from her before, not in moons, and he felt his heart pounding against his rib cage with such force he wondered if Sansa could hear it.

Her hands moved to cup his cheeks as she pressed her lips to his.

Jon sighed in contentment as she pulled away, rolling off her and bringing her with him.

Sansa pressed her cheek against his naked chest.

He felt her body soften further as sleep stole her from him.

His arms tightened around her, wanting to breathe her in and absorb her into his body.

He rested his chin in the cloud of her hair, inhaling her scent and relaxing as sated pleasure and deep satisfaction beckoned him irresistibly to join her sleep.

* * *

 

**SANSA**

He was in the Godswood, beneath the heart tree, seated in his wheelchair.

She walked past a small pool where the waters were black and warm.

The weirwood’s bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap. They were old, those eyes; older than Winterfell itself, but perhaps not older than her brother.

“I need to speak with you” – Sansa said.

“I know” – Bran spoke; his voice devoid of emotion.

A bad feeling inside Sansa grew stronger.

“You know” – she murmured.

“You’re doing the right thing” – Bran spoke again.

She flinched at his words.

_The right thing._

She had hoped Bran would tell her that she was wrong; that her plan was a mistake; that she was _not_ doing the _right thing_.

She stared down at her hands. They had begun to shake uncontrollably.

“Are you certain?” – she heard herself saying.

“I’ve seen it” – Bran declared, crushing all her hopes.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek hard.

So, it was really true.

_Jon should have married Daenerys, not her._

Their marriage had been a mistake. Jon had married the wrong woman.

He didn’t love her. He didn’t need her.

Sansa closed her eyes, trying to make herself breathe properly.

She stifled a helpless sob. Her heart thumped against her rib cage

She looked at Bran. His face showed no emotion.

She let out a long breath and hugged him, whishing Bran would wrap his arms around her and tell her that everything would be alright. He didn’t.

After a moment, she released him from her embrace.

She looked at her brother, but his eyes had already turned white.

Her bottom lip started to tremble. She felt a tear on her cheek and wiped it away with her thumb. She had to pull herself together.

 _Be_ _brave_ – Sansa told herself – _Be brave, like a lady in a song._

She turned her body and saw red eyes looking up at her.

The direwolf approached her soundlessly, like a cloudy white shadow.

“Ghost…” – Sansa breathed.

_Did he know? Did he come to say goodbye?_

She dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around the wolf’s neck.

Ghost sniffed deeply of her, accepting the embrace.

The direwolf smelled like North, like her childhood, like home, like _Jon_.

A sob rose in her chest.

“Take care of him” – she managed to say – “Watch over him for me” – she added.

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she felt heaviness in her chest.

She pressed her face into Ghost’s fur and allowed herself to cry.

 

* * *

 

She heard him walk toward the bed.

Sansa remained with her eyes closed, feeling Jon’s weight on the mattress as he climbed beneath the covers.

She debated whether to listen to her head or her heart.

She wanted to feel his lips on hers one last time. She _needed_ to kiss him one last time.

Her pulse pounded, and she chided herself for being so ridiculously nervous. They’d kissed any number of times before.

Gaining courage and confidence, she opened her eyes to see him watching her. His face was inches from her.

Jon smiled his heart-destroying smile, and she felt the terrible lurch of her idiotically romantic heart.

Her cheeks flushed with warmth.

She took a shaky breath before smiling in return.

She reached out and trailed her hand along his jaw. She loved the strong lines of his face.

Jon nuzzled into her palm and she tried not to think about the fact that this would be her last time with him. She would never again experience the delight she felt in his presence or the way he could lift her heart with a smile or a word.

Sansa snuggled a little closer to him, until her mouth was hovering just inches from his.

She licked her lips and then carefully pressed her mouth to his, framing his face in her hands.

Encouraged by the warm sensation all the way down her toes, she opened her mouth for a deep, wet, lazy kiss. There was nothing frenzied, nothing demanding. Just a sweet, languorous mating of lips and tongues and breath.

Kissing Jon was like stretching out in the sun, slowly soaking up physical delight.

He cradled her head in his palm and her heart fluttered and turned over like someone had set a jar full of butterflies free in her chest.

Jon was so exquisitely tender, so reverent.

After a long moment, he gently pulled her against him.

She rested her head against his broad chest and listened to the comforting beat of his heart.

The heat from his chest seeped through her nightgown, warming her body.

“You’re like a furnace” – the words stumbled out of her mouth.

When he laughed, she felt the vibration under her cheek. He was normally so solemn; she liked the idea that she could make him laugh this way. That she could leave him with fond memories of her.

She entwined their fingers together and rested their hands between their bodies, over her chest, telling him she loved him without words.

Her heart ached as she thought about tomorrow.

She could feel her eyes fill with tears and her throat thicken.

She would miss him, terribly.

 

* * *

 

**JON**

 

He woke with a start and looked over at where Sansa should be.

Her side of the bed was empty. It was also cold.

A bad feeling swept over him.

Sansa never woke up before him.

It had taken a while for him to become accustomed not only to sleeping in the wondrous luxury of their bed, but also to sleeping with Sansa. Not that he’d had any difficulty making the transition. In fact, he was usually so glued to her by the middle of the night that he was surprised she didn’t shove him away.

Some mornings, he’d lie there lazily, limbs entwined, and he’d rub a hand up and down her arm as the sun rose higher, reminding him it was time to face reality and leave the place where his love for her could, for a time, be uncovered.

This morning was the exception.

He raised up and looked around him.

There was a letter on the small table near the hearth.

Jon climbed clumsily out of bed as the bad feeling inside him grew stronger.

His feet started moving before his brain even knew what was happening.

He saw his name written on the paper and recognized Sansa’s handwriting immediately. He would have recognized her handwriting anywhere and at any time.

Alarms began shrieking in the back of his head.

He picked up a small knife and opened the letter.

His heart beat faster in anticipation. A wave of fear washed over him, leaving him light-headed.

He felt himself growing weaker.

His lungs hurt as he read through each word, imagining Sansa’s voice speaking the words to him directly:

_Dear Jon_

_I can’t do this anymore. Our marriage was a mistake._

_I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer, so I am doing what seems the best thing to do. Without me you will be free to find the happiness that you deserve._

_Sansa._

The knife dropped to the floor. The clang of metal hitting stone echoed around the chamber, and Jon felt the world – _his world_ – going darker.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading.  
> Share your thoughts with me!


	3. Chapter 3

 

* * *

  

 _I recognize that I love — you — by this: you leave in me a wound I do not want to replace —_ Jacques Derrida

 

* * *

 

**JON**

 

The blood drained from his face.

He read the note a second time, then a third.

When the meaning of _her_ words finally penetrated the fog in his brain, he inhaled sharply.

Jon looked around the room. Everything seemed calm, all of Sansa’s belongings were in their original places, and yet he could feel the worry and panic growing in his body.

Sheer black fright swept through him.

He could still feel her presence in the room as if she were there. But she wasn’t.

He read the letter again, slower this time in spite of his heart beating like thunder, sending panic coursing around his body, but the words remained unchanged, their meaning starkly clear.

Jon’s skin prickled.

He could almost hear her voice.

_I can’t do this anymore._

Every word was a knife.

_Our marriage was a mistake._

His breath caught.

 _A mistake?_ Their marriage was the best thing that had ever happened to him. _She_ was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He was happy. _She_ made him happy. The only thing lacking was that little phrase “I love you”. He hadn’t said the words, but they were there, even though they weren’t spoken. They were in every touch, every glance, every kiss…

He loved her.

All he wanted to do was please her and make her happy.

_I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer, so I am doing what seems the best thing to do._

Jon knew her habits were different from his. He knew he was not the husband she had always dreamed about. He didn’t look like a knight from Old Nan’s stories. The kind of knight Sansa always talked about when she was a little girl. He didn’t pen poems in her honor and he didn’t bring her flowers; he didn’t praise her beautiful gowns and hairstyles, but he loved her.

He would start a war for her.

He would let the world burn to keep her safe. No, he would do more than that. He would light the match.

He would die for her.

Sansa was his life, his love, his everything… he might never have told her that, not directly, but surely she knew.

_Without me you will be free to find the happiness that you deserve._

His chest knotted with pain.

Jon swayed a bit, but caught himself on the nearest wall.

His stomach tightened the moment he realized that he was leaning against the same wall where he had kissed Sansa the night before.

He had kissed her there, against the stone wall.

He clutched the letter in his hand as questions stormed his mind. His breathing came hard and sharp.

He couldn’t see himself without her. Even the thought of it killed him.

Without her, he wasn’t complete.

Sansa was all he had in the world. She was part of him. He was hers and she was his.

Trying to regain his senses, he concentrated on controlling his breathing while his heart rate continued to increase.

Half in dread, half in hope, he scanned their chambers, looking anxiously for the woman who meant so much to him.

“Sansa” – Jon heard his own voice as it emerged from his throat as if it were a stranger’s.

He called out again thinking maybe she just didn’t hear him.

He called a third time. Then a fourth.

Still no answer.

 _Without me …_ – Sansa’s words kept echoing in his mind.

The mere thought of his suspicious being confirmed made him feel sick.

He swallowed the hard lump that had formed in his throat.

Everywhere he looked he could see her.

Everywhere he looked he could see Sansa’s face. Sometimes smiling, sometimes sulky, but always beautiful and full of life.

He could see her sitting at the dressing table, combing her hair.

He could see her opening her closet and searching for the perfect gown.

He could see her sitting at the table in the corner of the room, playing cyvasse and eating lemon cakes.

He could see her by the fire, reading a book or plying her needle.

His body started trembling.

He saw a tunic over the back of an old chair and his legs almost gave way. Sansa was making a tunic for him.

Jon shut his eyes; his emotions getting the best of him.

The letter felt heavy on his hand. He felt the same heaviness in his heart too.

The tension made him gasp for breath.

He felt like the walls were closing in on him.

Jon stepped out of their chambers and stormed through the halls of the castle.

“Guards” – he tried to shout, but his voice was choked.

He walked down the stone steps.

Unconsciously, he quickened his pace.

He approached the doors of the Great Hall. The two men guarding the doors immediately bowed their heads.

Jon’s heart was racing frantically.

“Sans –“ – his voice broke.

The men exchanged a look.

Jon tried to keep his composure, trying not to let the guards know how terrified he was, but he failed.

“My wife … The Queen” – he stammered – “Find her” – he ordered.

He kept panting deep heavy breaths while his racing heart refused to calm.

The men looked at him in silence for a moment, confused.

“Now!” – he roared when the guards did not move.

The men bowed their heads and left quickly.

Drawing in a sharp breath, attempting to master his emotions, Jon started walking.

He needed help. He needed to understand what was happening. He needed answers. He needed someone to deny Sansa’s words; to deny the truth.

He stepped into Bran’s chambers, feeling the jangling sense that something dreadful was about to happen.

His cousin was seated in his wheelchair, looking at the flickering flames in the hearth.

The windows were open; gauzy white curtains blew in the breeze like restless ghosts.

Jon gulped.

“You read the letter” – Bran spoke without taking his eyes off the flames; it wasn’t a question.

Jon looked down at his hand, still clutching Sansa’s letter, and then at Bran.

His face was blank, unreadable. It was the Three-Eyed Raven’s face.

Jon shivered slightly.

“I need your help” – he spoke, breaking the silence.

“I can’t help you” – Bran declared.

Jon tried to control his breathing to keep his frantic emotions from consuming him.

“You’re the Three-Eyed Raven” – he said – “You can see things… Everything” – he added – “You can see where –“

“She’s gone” – Bran interrupted him.

Jon shuffled back a few steps.

_Gone? Gone where?_

When Bran finally looked at him, his heart stopped.

Fear had blossomed into full-blown terror.

Jon let out a shaky breath.

_No, no, no._

He shook his head, slowly at first, and then hard.

The ground shifted slightly beneath his feet.

His vision wavered.

 _Sansa couldn’t be gone. She couldn’t be dea –_ Jon couldn’t finish the thought.

“No…” – he breathed.

“Every word has consequences” – Bran spoke – “Every silence, too” – he added.

Jon’s chest ached.

Guilt struck him a sharp, backhanded blow as he understood Bran’s riddles.

All that was happening was his fault.

It killed him to think that if only he had told her he loved her then she wouldn’t have left. Wouldn’t be gone.

He thought the unhappiness she expressed anywhere but in their bed was because of all the things she had endured all over the years.

He never thought he was the cause of her sadness.

He never thought he would be the one to blame.

“All truths that are kept silent become poisonous” – Bran stated.

Jon could feel the guilt hanging over him like a leaden cloud.

He should’ve told her what was in his heart.

He could have prevented all that was happening.

Love was meant to be shared. And there were so many things he needed to tell Sansa, so many things he ought to have said…

Sansa should’ve known how much she meant to him.

But she was gone now.

_Because of me._

“For you” – Bran spoke as if he had just heard his thoughts – “She did it for you”

Jon’s lungs hurt as the image of Sansa invaded his mind.

He felt raw and hollow inside.

Without Sansa, things would never be fine again.

“You knew …” – Jon said; his voice breaking slightly – “Why didn’t you warn me?” – he added, a hint of desperation coloring his voice.

“Everything that happens, happens as it should” – Bran said; his voice devoid of emotion.

Jon felt a sharp pain in his chest, as if he had been stabbed. No, it was worse than being stabbed. He had been stabbed to death and this was worse. It was worse than death, because this time he knew that not even the Red Woman could save him … only Sansa could.

She couldn’t be gone. _This_ shouldn’t be happening.

Sansa was his strength. The person he lived for. He truly believed that the reason the Red Woman brought him back to life was because he was destined to meet Sansa again; because they were meant to be together; because he was hers and she was his.

A sudden thought pierced his mind.

“The Red Woman … Melisandre” – he stuttered – “She can… If I find her bod-“

“You won’t” – Bran stated stoically – “You won’t find Sansa’s body”

_Sansa’s body._

Her face appeared in his mind. Pale, blue eyes staring at him. Icy, blue lips. Body cold and stiff.

His gut roiled.

Jon felt like he might faint; his body was shaking and he felt detached.

“Your Grace” – a voice echoed through the room.

Jon turned his body so quickly his legs almost gave way underneath him. Every nerve and fiber in his body throbbed.

The air grew thick and cold.

“We found a horse” – the guard said – “Near the river”

* * *

 

The sky was overcast with heavy gray clouds.

His eyes continued to dart from one side of the road to the other.

The shape of Longclaw’s hilt beneath his fingers comforting and familiar in a world that seemed to shift and change around him like the landscape of a dream, of a nightmare.

The occasional gust of wind rustled the birch leaves and caused the branches to creak.

He swung his mount off the road and replayed over and over in his mind his conversation with Bran.

He felt as if his blood was rushing through his veins.

Sansa was not gone. His heart refused to believe she was gone. He would have felt it if she were.

Bran was wrong. He had to be wrong.

He just needed to find her.

He couldn’t live without her. He _wouldn’t_ live without her.

Something off to his right caught his attention.

Jon’s breath passed his lips in frozen clouds.

A white horse stood tied to a tree, saddled – Sansa’s horse.

A boiling terror crashed over him.

Jon saw again in his mind’s eye Ygritte’s dead body. His own hands around her body.

His hands rattled uncontrollably. His fingers quaked.

The horse looked at him sorrowfully and Jon blinked away the pinpricks of tears welling up in his eyes.

He scanned the ground.

He walked by a trail of footprints and found himself standing on the edge of the river bank.

He looked at the dark waters. Scenarios, each one more twisted than the last, flitted through his brain.

_Did she throw herself into the river? Did she kill herself in those waters?_

His mind whirled as it tried to deny what he knew to be true.

_She’s gone._

Jon turned pale as he faced reality. He could taste the bile in his mouth.

He couldn’t move.

_Had she suffered?_

Jon felt so cold he felt like he’d been buried in snow.

Darkness was spinning around him.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Sansa had died.

 _For you_ – Bran’s voice echoed in his head – _She did it for you_ – the words kept following him.

Guilt pounded at him as he realized he had pushed the love of his life to suicide.

He had brought her nothing but pain and turmoil.

Deep down, he was no better than Ramsay.

His chest felt tight, as though his body had been squeezed through a narrow opening.

 _If I don't watch over you, Father's ghost will come back and murder me_ – he had told her and the Gods had laughed.

His chest hitched violently with huge, painful sobs.

He’d failed her. He’d failed her miserably.

Agony shot through his body as if every bone he had was shattered.

He couldn’t stand the idea that he would never see her again; that he would never get the chance to tell her that he loved her, that he loved her more than he ever thought possible.

The ache that had started in his throat seeped into his chest, getting more raw and more real.

He felt as though his soul was being stripped from him.

“Jon!”

Someone was calling his name, but he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear it, because he knew it wasn’t Sansa’s voice.

He took a step forward and plunged into the river.

He dived down into the water, feeling the strengthening power of the tide.

He wanted – longed – to die. It was the only way he could meet Sansa again.

The blood was beginning to pound in his ears as his lungs demanded air.

He wanted to drown. He wanted to be in the same grave as Sansa.

He opened his mouth and took in a mouthful of water.

Jon immediately felt his lungs scream in pain.

The river had become a solid membrane closing around him, choking him.

Suddenly, he felt a movement in the water, next to him, and realized he was not alone.

For a moment, he thought it was Sansa and smiled. But then reality intruded.

Jon could just make out her eyes. Gray like his, and Lyanna’s and Ned’s.

He tried to dive further but Arya grasped and jerked at him.

She swam like a cormorant, like a fish.

Jon tried to fight her but the pain was too much and he was too weak. His whole body felt heavy.

Without knowing how, his head broke through the surface and he was gulping air.

He could feel Arya’s hand clutching his tunic as she swam strongly back to the shore.

She dragged him out of the water; her boots sliding in the mud.

Jon’s lungs were bursting. Every muscle in his body seemed paralyzed.

He watched as Arya struggled to get back on her feet.

A gush of water surged from his mouth. He coughed violently.

“What were you thinking?” – Arya demanded – “You could’ve died!”

Jon recognized her anger as concern.

Tears filled his eyes.

Arya continued to talk but Jon barely heard her.

He felt lost. Alone. Dead inside, as if someone had come along and scrapped his heart out.

He didn’t just want Sansa anymore. He _needed_ her. With a desperation he’d never felt before for anything or anyone but her.

He was hers and she was his.

And now she was gone.

He thought about the mad King and how he wished to be him; to his mind to become clouded and dull, unwilling to perceive reality. But his mind flooded with a burst of images, memories, cascading through him, one on top of the next.

He could see her long red hair, blue eyes and porcelain skin.

He could see her smile and those pearly teeth that could warm the coldest winter.

He could hear her beautiful, almost musical, voice.

His heart hurt. It ached like it never had in his life.

Jon brought his eyes up slowly to meet Arya’s.

“San –“ – his voice failed him; he couldn't even say her name – “It’s my fault” – he added, in a shaky voice.

He didn’t think he could bring himself to say the next words.

A sob broke loose, but he managed to contain the others that were lingering in his throat.

His chest burst in agonizing pain.

“She’s gone” – Jon said.

Darkness engulfed him.

His heart had endured all it could.

 

* * *

 

**SANSA**

 

“Alayne!”

It took her a moment to recognize that someone was calling her name. Her new name.

 _You are Alayne, and you must be Alayne all the time. Even here. In your heart. Can you do that?_ – she could still hear his words, his voice.

A cold shiver ran down her spine.

 _Your mother was a gentlewoman of Braavos, daughter of a merchant prince. She died giving you birth, and entrusted you to the Faith. At your flowering you decided you did not wish to be a septa._ _Do you think you can remember all that?_ – she had remembered; she was a practiced liar.

Petyr Baelish had taught her well.

Almost two years in King’s Landing had not changed Sansa, although it had changed the way she perceived the city.

She had sworn to herself that she would never step foot on the capital again, but her life had never really been the way she planned… and there she was again. In King’s Landing. A city with a population of 500.000. A place where no one would ever find her.

She had always seen King ‘s Landing as a city dotted with manses and beautiful gardens. A city where between buildings the roads were broad, lined with trees and branching alleys and streets.

Sansa shivered lightly as she remembered the Red Keep with its massive curtain walls where the heads of traitors were traditionally placed on iron spikes between the crenels at the gatehouse.

She could still see the Great Hall. The Iron Throne sat on a raised iron dais with high and narrow steps. A long carpet stretched from the throne to the Hall’s great oak-and-bronze doors.

Maegon’s Holdfast. The castle-within-a-castle situated behind walls twelve feet thick and a dry moat lined with iron spikes.

The royal apartments. Her chamber with a canopied bed and twin hearths.

The Queen’s Ballroom with beaten silver mirrors behind the wall sconces which made the torch’s light seem twice as bright.

Sansa shook her head.

Once upon a time she had known all corridors of the Red Keep, now she knew all streets of the poorest slum district in the city of King's Landing.

Located on the eastern side of Rhaenys's Hill, Flea Bottom was a maze of twisty, unpaved alleys and cross-streets. The buildings leaned over narrow alleys, almost touching. It had a stench of pigsties and stables, tanner’s sheds mixed in with the smell of winesinks.

There was the Street of Flour, that contained numerous bakeries and where sometimes she bought lemon cakes (not as good as the ones she used to eat back home).

The Street of Silk, a street to the northwest of the Dragonpit, lined with brothels of varying expense.

Eel Alley, located on Visenya’s Hill.

Pigrun Alley, enclosed by tall timber-and-stone buildings whose upper stories leaned out so far over the streets that they nearly touched those of the buildings across from them.

River Row, a street along the southern wall, east of Fishmonger's Square, home to sea captains, fishmongers and others with interest in the harbor.

And of course, the Street of Steel, where most smiths had their forges. It began on the west of Fishmonger's Square, inside the River Gate, and climbed up Visenya's Hill. The higher up one went, the more expensive the shops.

Sansa looked around and smiled, recognizing him.

The man was waving and walking towards her.

As soon as he got near her, he helped her carry her basket of fruit and vegetables.

Tall and very muscled, he had blue eyes and thick, black hair.

“I’m making rabbit stew tonight” – Gendry spoke.

“You don’t have to feed me every time we meet” – Sansa said.

“I know. I’m just being neighborly” – he said, smiling – “But I also know that you’re a terrible cook” – he added – “Remember when you tried to make Roast Chicken?”

She remembered. She had burned their meal.

“I hate to tell you” – Gendry continued to say, a grin still crinkling the corners of his blue eyes – “But as far as cooking goes you suck”

She couldn’t help it. She grinned.

Of course, she sucked. She didn’t even know how to peel potatoes right.

“Fine. You cook” – she said – “I just have some lessons to give first” – she added – “I’ll meet you at sunset”

Almost every morning she was busily occupied in giving first writing-lessons. In the afternoon she would teach fine needlework and how to care for delicate lace and embroidery with a group of other young women and girls while one of them would read aloud.

She had taught dozens of local children to read and write. She had even taught Gendry who progressed – in the space of seven moons – from absolute illiteracy to the ability to read the story of Aegon the Conqueror without stumbling over a single word.

Sansa didn’t have any books, but she had managed to get some ink and parchment so she could write all stories Septa Mordane had told her when she was just a child. That way she could read them whenever she liked, and she could teach them to her students.

She felt honored to teach her skills, which helped her feel she was becoming a part of the community.

It was in the evenings when she would feel her isolation the most. In the silence of her house, when the kids and women returned to their homes, her thoughts would fly and wander.

Sansa waved at Gendry, then took a deep breath, and stepped inside the house.

A vase of fresh-cut flowers sat in the center of a small table and the aroma of the arrangement filled the room.

She glanced around – a glance was enough to enable her to see all.

The sloping roof of the house made one wall a ceiling also; two windows were set in there.

The only furniture left in the house when she got it was a small bed (with a little hole in the middle, filled in with rags and other cloth oddities), a round table with two chairs and a small washstand with a little bowl.

Now, colorful rugs of various stripes covered the floor and an embroidered and crocheted tablecloth adorned the table. She even had a rocking chair with a cushioned seat and an upholstered bench.

Sansa managed a small smile as she looked at the nearest wall. Gendry had built some shelves and attached them to the walls, so she could store household items: candles, a basket of yarn and knitting needles, old pots, pans and chipped dishes…

She put her basket down and walked over to where an old mirror hung on the wall.

Sansa blinked her eyes twice as soon as she stared at her reflection. For a split second, she didn’t recognize herself, but then reality hit her. The person inside the mirror was herself. The person inside the mirror was Alayne Stone – a lie.

Sansa felt tears prick at her eyes. Her once flawless pale skin was now tanned to a golden hue.

She touched her hair mournfully and nearly cried out at the sight of it.

She remembered the day Sansa Stark had died; the day the Queen in the North had left her white horse tied to a tree and stepped into a small, wooden boat, so she could escape without leaving any hoofprints in the soil. That day she had meticulously coated every strand of her hair in dark dye, and then carefully applied the color to her eyebrows.

She shivered as she recalled the way her thick red hair had began to turn a deep dark brown as she daubed it with the dye.

She pulled her hair back and tied it with an old piece of tattered cloth.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt as if her very insides had been torn and broken.

She didn’t want to remember that day. It belonged to another life.

She wanted closure. And she desperately wanted to see _him_ , touch him, kiss him.

She loved him. That would never change.

Sansa pinched her eyes shut, almost feeling his touch, his scent, his potent power sweeping her away.

She missed him.

She missed the feel of him when he held her.

She missed his kisses.

She felt as if she were walking around with a hole somewhere. Something was missing. Not something. Someone. _Jon_.

She ached for him still.

Countless nights she’d picked up her quill, then talked herself out of writing him.

Sansa Stark was gone.

She was Alayne Stone, now.

And Alayne Stone didn’t love Jon Targaryen.

She moved to brush away her tears and noticed her hands were covered with dirt. She rubbed them against her dress as tears continued to roll down her face, drenching her cheeks.

She caught herself after a moment, and was embarrassed by her reaction.

There was no time for personal grooming.

There were far more important things to be concerned with.

 

* * *

 

“This is thyme” – Gendry said, running his fingers down the stem and removing several leaves; he let her smell them – “Thyme is used for coughs. It can be rubbed on legs or arms that ache from too much work” – he added – “And it will give this rabbit stew some life”

Gendry put the leaves into the stew and then reached for the wild garlic. He broke off a long green blade and ripped it into small shreds, adding it to the stew as well.

He stirred the mixture, tasted it and offered her a taste from his spoon.

“You sir, can cook for me any time” – Sansa said in a very aristocratic tone, after she swallowed – “This is delicious!” – she smiled – “You're going to spoil me, you know. I could get used to this”

“Good. I’m glad you like it” – Gendry said; his voice was soft with a hint of amusement– “I thought it might be difficult to please an excellent cook like yourself” – the corner of his mouth quirked up.

Sansa stuck her tongue out at him playfully. He tried to look shocked, but quickly gave up the pretense of disapproval and grinned back at her.

Gendry cleared the table and served their plates.

He sat down across from her and poured them each a glass of wine.

“You know what you should do next?” – Sansa said, after swallowing a mouthful; Gendry raised an eyebrow – “Lemon cakes” – she stated.

“That’s baking, not cooking” – he said.

Sansa rolled her eyes.

She dipped a chunk of bread into the bowl.

She finished a large mouthful of stew and glanced at Gendry.

She frowned.

“You're not eating” – she said, noticing he had barely touched his food – “Something wrong?” – she asked.

Gendry played with his spoon in shyness.

“I wanted to ask you a favor” – he finally said.

Sansa straightened her back.

“Ask away” – she said.

Instead of asking, Gendry pulled out of his pocket a beautiful bracelet.

He handed her the band. Her eyes popped wide open as soon as she noticed the small pendant hanging down in the center. It was a little hammer.

With her index finger she traced the delicate pendant made of bronze. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, perfect in design and form.

She knew Gendry was remarkably skilled with a hammer. He was a perfectionist, and his work never had the slightest blemish. He must have spent countless hours making the bracelet.

“What do you think?” – he asked, softly.

“It’s beautiful, Gendry” – she said, letting out a quiet gasp, not being able to take her eyes away from the bracelet – “Did you make it for your lady friend?” – she asked, finally meeting his eyes.

He nodded.

Sansa couldn’t help but smile, noticing the way Gendry rubbed the back of his neck; his cheeks turning red.

She felt curious about this mysterious woman who could make a strong man like Gendry look like a green boy every time he mentioned her or she asked him about her.

Gendry didn’t tell her much about his lady friend, but the way his voice sounded like when he talked about her didn’t leave room for any doubts: he loved her.

According to him, she was beautiful, strong and keen mind; she refused to wear gowns and skirts; she preferred to wear trousers.

She also knew that Gendry had met her here, in King’s Landing, many years ago, when they were children, but from what Sansa had been able to figure it out about this mysterious woman, she lived far away from King’s Landing. She was a northern.

Sansa wondered if she had ever met her, since Gendry mentioned she was highborn.

_Could she be Alys Karstark?_

_Meera Reed, perhaps?_

_Wylla Manderly?_

Whoever she was, she was lucky to have Gendry in her life.

“I made it last week” – he said, clearing his throat.

“I’m sure she will love it” – she reassured him.

“Her nameday is only three moons away” – Gendry said in a ragged voice, running his hand through his hair – “I wanted to give her something special” – he explained – “But I need your help”

“My help?” – she laughed, surprised – “Gendry, you already have the perfect gift!”

Gendry rose from his chair and made his way towards an old cabinet. He opened a drawer and searched until he found a small pouch.

He returned to the table.

“You may not know how to cook but you definitely know how to sew” – he said, showing her the pouch – “Can you turn this into something beautiful? Perhaps add some embroidery?” – he continued to say – “I wanted to put the bracelet inside”

“Flowers are a classic motif in embroidery” – Sansa said as she looked at the pouch – “I could make roses and daffodils”

Gendry’s brows knitted slightly.

Sansa touched the drawstrings.

“Leaves?” – she suggested, but Gendry shook his head – “Vines?” – she tried again – “Birds?”

Gendry rubbed the stubble on his chin.

Sansa bit her lower lip. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her chair.

“She likes wolves” – Gendry said after a few seconds of silence – “Can you embroider a wolf?” – he asked; she tried to remain neutral, expressionless – “Or is it too difficult?” – he added as if he had sensed her discomfort.

Sansa felt her heart beat faster; her breath quickened.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

The memory of the day she left Winterfell returned to her mind; the moment after she dyed her hair and paid special attention to her hands, ensuring that they appeared worn. She’d smeared dirt and even made small scratches and cuts to her fingers and knuckles.

She remembered the gowns she used to wear; the figure of a direwolf, the sigil of House Stark, embroidered in white thread on the front of all her bodices; sometimes she would embroil the wolf’s eyes in red thread…

_Ghost._

Sansa clasped her hands together, one hand squeezing the other tightly.

She remembered the little wolves she used to stitch on Jon’s tunics and shirts.

She moistened her lips in order to get them to move again in speech.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Sansa sat up straight.

“I can make a wolf” – she managed to say without her voice quivering.

Gendry smiled: a wide, bright smile. He gave her hand a little squeeze and she felt herself smile back.

He took a sip of his wine and then started eating his food.

Sansa watched as he dipped his spoon, found a nice healthy lump of meat, and put it in his mouth.

She put her spoon down and dabbed the cloth napkin to her lips.

“Have you told her yet?” – she spoke.

“Told her what?” – Gendry asked, after swallowing the food in his mouth.

“That you love her” – she said as if it were obvious to a blind fool.

Gendry coughed. His eyes widened.

He shoved a bite of stew into his mouth.

“She’s highborn” – he mumbled.

“And?” – Sansa insisted.

“And I’m not” – he said, avoiding her gaze.

Sansa narrowed her eyes.

Gendry was humble, but he was also self-conscious about being a commoner.

His ability to understand how social standing benefited people unlike him made him an extremely pragmatic and practical person.

“She deserves someone better than me” – Gendry said quietly, staring at his plate.

“You’re kidding, right?” – she spoke; Gendry opened his mouth, but Sansa was faster – “You’re kind, good-looking, hardworking … and you even cook!” – she elucidated him.

Gendry’s mouth flinched with a smile, but he shook his head.

True to her stubborn, determined nature, Sansa touched one of his hands and gave it a gentle squeeze.

His hands were warm, the skin work-roughened and callused. It reminded her of Jon’s hands.

She pushed the thought away.

“Don't ruin something that most people never get” – she said, softly.

Gendry met her eyes.

“I don’t think she knows how I feel about her” – he admitted.

“Well, then you should tell her” – Sansa said – “It’s the sort of things ladies like to hear” – she winked at him.

“What if she doesn’t feel the same?” – he asked.

“Ah, but what if she does?” – she smiled.

* * *

Sansa looked at her onion broth and immediately missed Gendry’s rabbit stew.

She wrinkled her nose.

Her stomach growled and she forced herself to take a mouthful of the meal in front of her. It tasted like mud in her mouth, but she swallowed it.

She really hoped Gendry came back soon.

She hadn’t seen him for moons and she was starting to miss him.

She enjoyed their little chats.

He was one of the few people she felt comfortable around.

She could almost be herself when she was with him.

Sansa touched the chain she always wore around her neck. The pendant on the end disappeared into the gown because of the length of the chain.

She had asked Gendry to make it.

It was a simple, but elegant initial shaped pendant.

When he asked her why did she want a pendant with the initial ‘J’, she had lied and told him that it was for ‘Jeyne’ – her mother’s name.

She felt a little guilty for the lie, but she couldn’t tell him the truth.

Sansa touched the pendant and traced the design with her finger.

She wondered if Jon ever thought of her.

Her heart beat frantically against her chest.

She rose from her chair and started pacing back and forth in the room.

She had had the time to grow used to his absence. But she still longed for him.

She missed him more and more.

It was a constant, dull ache, which occupied her subconscious wherever she went and whatever she did. The pain was too severe and showed no signs of abating.

She wanted him to be happy, but that didn’t change the desire she carried inside for him.

Sansa leaned against the wall, resting her cheek on the door frame.

The loss was especially acute when she was alone with her thoughts.

She felt as though half of her was missing.

She missed him at night, though she no longer stretched out her hopeful arm to see if he had materialized every time she closed her eyes.

She ached for him into the early hours, until exhaustion robbed her of her consciousness for the shortest of whiles.

_Did he miss her too? Was he finding sleep as elusive? Or had he forgotten her as soon as she left?_

Sansa closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the door; hard and cold against her skin.

 _Far from eye, far from heart_ – she supposed. Or perhaps she had never been in his heart in the first place. At least not the way she wanted to be.

She felt tears rolling down her cheeks.

She missed him, terribly.

She missed his voice and the way he said her name. Her true name; the caress of the S, the way it seemed to end on a breath.

She took a deep breath, holding back the urge to cry.

She was Alayne Stone, now.

She was moving on with her life. Or trying to…

She brushed away the last of her tears just as a knock rattled the door.

She smoothed the front of her plain dress, frowning at a stain on it.

Her hand closed around the knob and she opened the door.

For a split second she thought she was dreaming.

A wave of astonishment washed over her.

The floor under her seemed to tilt.

Her breath caught in her throat; she could hear her own heart beating inside her chest.

“Sansa” – he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!  
> Please, share your thoughts with me!
> 
> Important information: For this story to work, Sansa never met Gendry in Winterfell. I hope that's okay with you.


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